Chapter XXVII: In the Hands of the Enemy

Somers turned slowly, and, though it was so dark, I could see that his hands were held high. Peter and I hastened to elevate ours.

“Who are you?” he asked quietly. “What do you want?”

A gruff laugh answered him. “You done said my name, stranger. An’ what does you-all want, an’ what fer are ye calling Roaring Lafe?”

“Doctor Major, down in the city, said you were the man to see,” replied Somers coolly. “My name is Winters, John Winters. I’ve got consumption, and they sent me into the mountains to live. This is my uncle, George Winters and Mr. Scott. We want to buy land for a cabin for me, and Mr. Scott’s going to build it.”

An incredulous grunt replied, as the bushes crackled, and a huge shape emerged. Straining my eyes through the dark, I made out the pale blur of a white beard, which the man stroked thoughtfully.

“Don’t yuh pay ’em no mind, Lafe,” said another voice, a shrill, ugly voice, with a tremor in it. “Shoot ’em down! Them’s revenooers!”

“You hark, Cal Col! I aim t’ tend my bus’ness my own self. Git on them hosses, you-all, an’ foller me. We-all’ll fetch ’em up to th’ cabin an’ look ’em over there.”

We obeyed exactly. Though Roaring Lafe had not thought it necessary even to warn us, the repeating rifle in his hand was eloquent; and, as we spurred after his huge figure, another man and another broke through the laurel behind us, until we were flanked and followed by at least half a dozen, all carrying rifles.

“In for it now!” said Peter.

“Shut up!” replied our leader.

We went on in silence, save for the creak of saddle leathers, the stumbling footfalls of our horses; the men all about us moved like wraiths, noiselessly. We mounted a steep grade, for I had to lean forward to keep the saddle; then we wound through a tangle of laurel and came out into a clearing, which seemed almost light in contrast with the blackness below. Before us loomed the dim outlines of a big log cabin. When we had reached it our captor said:

“Light down, you-all! Git in!”

He scorned to threaten, even to warn us, but his rifle barrel pointed his request. We obeyed without words, ducked our heads to pass the low lintel, and entered a bare, puncheon-floored room, with a rough stone fireplace at one end.

I looked about it curiously, as at some remembered spot. A rude homemade armchair stood before the fire, and on a stand beside it rested a gallon jug. There Roaring Lafe had sat many and many a night, year after year, talking and drinking. In that corner, perhaps, Anne Christie had huddled, a tattered, brown-legged girl beside her mother; a half-grown maiden, dreaming her dreams of the “settlements;” a woman full grown, dainty and fair, recalling bitterly her free, broad life, which seemed so hopelessly behind her, and always frightened; shivering with fear of this hulking, ignorant, bullying brute, Lafe Rutledge.

It was very pitiful; it made her story more real, more terrible in its quiet pathos. My eyes smarted, and I think that Somers’ thoughts must have run in the same channel, for he faced Rutledge with a new defiance.

“Now what do you mean,” he demanded, “by stopping honest folks in this fashion?”

Rutledge grinned, showing long, yellow teeth in his beard. “W’y, wa’n’t you-all a-wishin’ an’ a-honin’ fer to find Roarin’ Lafe?” he asked. “What do you-all aim to see him about? What’s yore bus’ness? Speak up, now!”

The man called Cal Col interrupted again, his dry eyes darting hither and thither, his lean features working hungrily.

“Kill ’em, Lafe! Kill ’em right off! Them’s revenooers, I tell ye; hain’t no use o’ waitin’ fer ’em to lie to ye.”

Somers turned upon him fiercely enough: “You lie yourself!”

Cal Col stepped swiftly behind the bulky form of his leader. “You le’ me be!” he whined.

The other mountaineers, rough, bearded men in homespun and cowhide boots, laughed and nudged each other. I judged that Cal Col was not a general favorite.

“Hush yo’r yap, boys! Hit hain’t healthy fer furriners here on Devil’s Branch, stranger. ’F you got consumption, I shore am sorry fer hit; but we-all cain’t have no furriners up here. Hit was a furriner done stoled my gyurl.” The craggy, beetling brows drew down over hot eyes; Roaring Lafe’s deep voice grew deeper, louder, more unfriendly. “You-all kin git, right now! Hank, guide ’em out an’ onto th’ trail fer Azalea. They-all can fetch hit, come mornin’.”

“But not to-night!” protested Somers. “Our horses are beat out.”

“Git!” repeated Rutledge sternly.

But now his men began to murmur. “Look-a-here, Lafe!” began the fellow called Hank. “Hit hain’t safe! Mebbe they hain’t revenooers, but they sure kin----”

Rutledge snorted. “Hain’t got sense!” he replied contemptuously. “An’ they don’t know nothin’.”

“Revenooers!” repeated Cal Col shrilly. He made a dash at Peter, the smallest of us, and gripped his coat. “Kill ’em! A-a-a-ah!”

It was a howl of triumph. For Peter’s coat tore open under that clutch, and on his vest shone the deputy-sheriff’s star which he had forgotten to conceal!

The mountaineers growled ominously. “Sneaks! Spies! Revenooers!” Half a dozen menacing rifle barrels thrust out at us.

All was lost; but we would sell our lives as dearly as we might. We whipped out the pistols, which Rutledge’s contemptuous confidence had left us, and stood with backs to the wall.

The door burst open, and Ralph Satterfield dashed in, panting.

“Lafe! Hank! All here? Lissen, fellers, it’s all up!” He paused in wonder at the tableau; then a malevolent grin plucked at his piratical mustache. “Well, dog my cats! You-all got ’em a’ready! Lissen, Lafe, them fellers is spies! They bin watchin’ an’ doggin’ round an’ seen us handlin’ that liquor an’ run straight t’ Raleigh las’ night to squeal! Hull revenue bunch’ll be onto our necks directly. An’ they come up here!” he exclaimed, with gloating malice. “Ain’t that nice, huh? Kill ’em!”

Roaring Lafe gestured the rifles aside, and beneath the shaggy brows his eyes flamed coldly.

“Git back!” he said. I saw how he had earned his title. “Git back! Le’ me settle this here!” The cabin echoed to his roar.

He advanced upon us, alone, empty-handed. His fierce old eyes glowed, his thick beard fairly bristled with inhuman rage. On he came, full in the face of Somers’ leveled pistol, heeding it no more than a pointed finger.

There was something terrible, superhuman, in that slow, implacable advance. The power of the man shone out; I tasted to the full that paralyzing fear Anne Christie had tried to voice. I felt that this huge old man was invulnerable, unconquerable; his absolute certainty beat down my will. I suppose a rabbit feels thus, watching the advance of a stoat; a bird, charmed by some venomous snake, could be no more helpless than I was then. Despite me, the pistol barrel dropped. I could not resist; he had only to stretch out his hand.

Beside me Peter’s face showed white and slack; beads of perspiration shone on it. His hands dropped nervelessly.

But Somers grinned. “I’d hate to shoot my father-in-law,” he drawled, “but----”

“You needn’t,” said a dry, quiet voice from without. “Hands up, all! You’re covered!”